syvia
in
springkink
Tremens Factus [The World Ends With You, Composer/Producer, PG-13]
Title: Tremens Factus
Author/Artist: syvia
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers implied for the secret reports.
Word Count: 1166
Summary: Actions have consequences. Shibuya is safe, but there is the little matter of the Producer’s betrayal.
Prompt: The World Ends With You, Composer/Producer: wingkink - :You may be Fallen, but you are still mine.:
Author’s Notes: Thanks go to my beta, crimsoncookie. I do hope this is what the prompter wanted. If not... I hope you like it anyway!
He had to squint to look at the Composer now.
That could mean any number of things and none of them good.
The Producer's eyes slid lazily away, out into the distance, away from the boss-man. But it was just CAT, getting a new idea, a million miles away, somewhere out among the stars. It didn't work as well as it used to. Wherever his mind went, he was still fixated on the state of his body, back where he'd left it.
The Composer drifted closer to him and circled around to his back. That made it easier not to look but he could still sense it. Divine light, music, the touch of God and the higher powers, all of them existed within the Composer. Every Composer, every city, every Game, and that meant-
no escape.
Going to a new city would be pointless because another city would have another Composer. Going Upstairs, when he wasn't sure of his welcome, was stupidity of the most insulting degree, and going Down voluntarily was tantamount to waving a cheery goodbye as he raised one foot above the empty air and stepped off the Cerulean Tower.
Without wings.
:Speaking of which,: the Composer trailed off and the Producer canted his chin down, gazing at the intricate carvings partitioning the floor in front of the Composer's throne but not seeing them. He couldn't help listening now, the roll and ebb of wooden flutes, the hollow boom of large chimes and the echo of a gong. The drawn out moan of bass as horsehair was drawn over the lowest note, all soft as a breath and trembling in his bones.
His music sounded different. The Composer's, not his. Or it was the same and he could no longer hear it properly. It was still powerful. It was anything and everything without end, whatever it needed to be in the moment you heard it and now it was hushed... expectant. Trembling on the edge of a cliff and waiting. Or it simply felt that way, because he was waiting.
Standing in the Room of Reckoning, and that was more than appropriate.
The kids were gone, Shibuya wasn't, and he was responsible. He'd manipulated events to get them to this point; offering to Imprint the tag mural and grab the Composer a worthy proxy, telling Phones again and again to trust his partner, teaching the Game Master how to refine Taboo Noise, grabbing the Composer back from the alternate dimension he'd blown himself to, giving Phones the Producer's own keypin.
It wasn't the Producer's job to interfere with a Game and it wasn't an Angel's job to tread on Free Will. Upstairs, the ends did not, in any situation, justify the means.
So he was waiting. Lost in the potential of the moment, the uncertainty. He'd done what he had planned to do and he wasn't sorry but he was a bit... apprehensive.
The Composer's hand drifted across his cheek, down his shoulder blade and a shimmer of light brushed his shoulder, his neck. The Composer sighed against his cheek, wood chimes breathing his name.
The Producer let his wings extend, almost painfully, from his shoulder blades. Compliant to the Composer's will. Unfolding in the lower frequencies, because they were always there- always visible to the highest channels, always a reminder, but he had to bring them down for the Composer.
Higher level or not, he was not in charge here. That wasn't his role in the symphony. Producers made sure there were enough instruments and a place to play. They didn't interfere with the music. They weren't supposed to. They observed and advised and now he wasn't even sure it was still his place to do that. He'd given up that right, offered up his position and yes, his existence, for the chance to save Shibuya from the Composer.
Composition. The power to make, but also to destroy. To remove and replace, to change, and the music of his hands was rising along the Producer's back. Subtle harmony to buoy up a flagging melody. To spur it on, remind it where it was meant to be and remain there, guiding, enriching the song.
He'd known they would arrive here. He would, at some point have to answer for his betrayal. He'd known the exact moment, the rise of the baton and the count, one... two... three... four.
A single measure after the boss had said 'You know what I think would be highly entertaining?' and the Producer realized he couldn't let it happen.
But now. What happened now? The Composer might kill him and perhaps he preferred that. He could be replaced. Easily. One Producer was as good as the next, according to most Composers. It didn't matter who, so long as you had one. The Higher Powers would appoint a replacement if the current holder of the position was unacceptable or somehow- shock, horror- died.
His wings extended and the Composer stroked them further outward, smoothing down pinions with soft, soft sweeps of his music. Broad-handed but so light. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he shivered. The Producer breathed out.
"Gonna rip them off, boss?" he asked in a low voice. The tone was teasing- the question was not. It earned a chuckle.
:I have seen few things more pathetic than a flightless Angel.:
He flinched and the Composer noticed, hummed. Whatever he'd become, he was still one of those. It wasn't a comfort but a reminder- he'd stepped out of his boundaries, he'd crossed so many lines and he would be punished for it. He just didn't know how. The punishment for taking action unbecoming his station was, in most cases, to be Cast Down. But no one talked about that. No one knew what it really meant.
He had long suspected that Falling wasn't a transformation. It wasn't a defilement or a change of race. It was descent. Your body didn't change and nothing in the history of the world could turn you from Angel to 'other'. Alteration was in perception alone. Your acceptance of the Divine, reverence for all life.
Defilement came later and was, for the most part, self-inflicted.
The Producer of Shibuya stood, Composer at his back, and was made to feel the difference. They had done this before. The Composer had always held a particular fascination for his wings. Touching them in this fashion, his music beginning at the wrist, stroking gently along the leading edge to the end of the largest primaries, then under, among their tips, and between them. The shudder this time wasn't for pleasure because this too had altered. The familiar pattern and sweep of hands felt different when nothing had changed.
Sanae didn't know what he was anymore.
The Composer seemed to think that, as he ghosted music over and into his Producer's wings, until every feather trembled and stretched to the fullest span, extremely funny.
:Fallen or not,: he purred, :you are still mine.:
Author/Artist: syvia
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers implied for the secret reports.
Word Count: 1166
Summary: Actions have consequences. Shibuya is safe, but there is the little matter of the Producer’s betrayal.
Prompt: The World Ends With You, Composer/Producer: wingkink - :You may be Fallen, but you are still mine.:
Author’s Notes: Thanks go to my beta, crimsoncookie. I do hope this is what the prompter wanted. If not... I hope you like it anyway!
He had to squint to look at the Composer now.
That could mean any number of things and none of them good.
The Producer's eyes slid lazily away, out into the distance, away from the boss-man. But it was just CAT, getting a new idea, a million miles away, somewhere out among the stars. It didn't work as well as it used to. Wherever his mind went, he was still fixated on the state of his body, back where he'd left it.
The Composer drifted closer to him and circled around to his back. That made it easier not to look but he could still sense it. Divine light, music, the touch of God and the higher powers, all of them existed within the Composer. Every Composer, every city, every Game, and that meant-
no escape.
Going to a new city would be pointless because another city would have another Composer. Going Upstairs, when he wasn't sure of his welcome, was stupidity of the most insulting degree, and going Down voluntarily was tantamount to waving a cheery goodbye as he raised one foot above the empty air and stepped off the Cerulean Tower.
Without wings.
:Speaking of which,: the Composer trailed off and the Producer canted his chin down, gazing at the intricate carvings partitioning the floor in front of the Composer's throne but not seeing them. He couldn't help listening now, the roll and ebb of wooden flutes, the hollow boom of large chimes and the echo of a gong. The drawn out moan of bass as horsehair was drawn over the lowest note, all soft as a breath and trembling in his bones.
His music sounded different. The Composer's, not his. Or it was the same and he could no longer hear it properly. It was still powerful. It was anything and everything without end, whatever it needed to be in the moment you heard it and now it was hushed... expectant. Trembling on the edge of a cliff and waiting. Or it simply felt that way, because he was waiting.
Standing in the Room of Reckoning, and that was more than appropriate.
The kids were gone, Shibuya wasn't, and he was responsible. He'd manipulated events to get them to this point; offering to Imprint the tag mural and grab the Composer a worthy proxy, telling Phones again and again to trust his partner, teaching the Game Master how to refine Taboo Noise, grabbing the Composer back from the alternate dimension he'd blown himself to, giving Phones the Producer's own keypin.
It wasn't the Producer's job to interfere with a Game and it wasn't an Angel's job to tread on Free Will. Upstairs, the ends did not, in any situation, justify the means.
So he was waiting. Lost in the potential of the moment, the uncertainty. He'd done what he had planned to do and he wasn't sorry but he was a bit... apprehensive.
The Composer's hand drifted across his cheek, down his shoulder blade and a shimmer of light brushed his shoulder, his neck. The Composer sighed against his cheek, wood chimes breathing his name.
The Producer let his wings extend, almost painfully, from his shoulder blades. Compliant to the Composer's will. Unfolding in the lower frequencies, because they were always there- always visible to the highest channels, always a reminder, but he had to bring them down for the Composer.
Higher level or not, he was not in charge here. That wasn't his role in the symphony. Producers made sure there were enough instruments and a place to play. They didn't interfere with the music. They weren't supposed to. They observed and advised and now he wasn't even sure it was still his place to do that. He'd given up that right, offered up his position and yes, his existence, for the chance to save Shibuya from the Composer.
Composition. The power to make, but also to destroy. To remove and replace, to change, and the music of his hands was rising along the Producer's back. Subtle harmony to buoy up a flagging melody. To spur it on, remind it where it was meant to be and remain there, guiding, enriching the song.
He'd known they would arrive here. He would, at some point have to answer for his betrayal. He'd known the exact moment, the rise of the baton and the count, one... two... three... four.
A single measure after the boss had said 'You know what I think would be highly entertaining?' and the Producer realized he couldn't let it happen.
But now. What happened now? The Composer might kill him and perhaps he preferred that. He could be replaced. Easily. One Producer was as good as the next, according to most Composers. It didn't matter who, so long as you had one. The Higher Powers would appoint a replacement if the current holder of the position was unacceptable or somehow- shock, horror- died.
His wings extended and the Composer stroked them further outward, smoothing down pinions with soft, soft sweeps of his music. Broad-handed but so light. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he shivered. The Producer breathed out.
"Gonna rip them off, boss?" he asked in a low voice. The tone was teasing- the question was not. It earned a chuckle.
:I have seen few things more pathetic than a flightless Angel.:
He flinched and the Composer noticed, hummed. Whatever he'd become, he was still one of those. It wasn't a comfort but a reminder- he'd stepped out of his boundaries, he'd crossed so many lines and he would be punished for it. He just didn't know how. The punishment for taking action unbecoming his station was, in most cases, to be Cast Down. But no one talked about that. No one knew what it really meant.
He had long suspected that Falling wasn't a transformation. It wasn't a defilement or a change of race. It was descent. Your body didn't change and nothing in the history of the world could turn you from Angel to 'other'. Alteration was in perception alone. Your acceptance of the Divine, reverence for all life.
Defilement came later and was, for the most part, self-inflicted.
The Producer of Shibuya stood, Composer at his back, and was made to feel the difference. They had done this before. The Composer had always held a particular fascination for his wings. Touching them in this fashion, his music beginning at the wrist, stroking gently along the leading edge to the end of the largest primaries, then under, among their tips, and between them. The shudder this time wasn't for pleasure because this too had altered. The familiar pattern and sweep of hands felt different when nothing had changed.
Sanae didn't know what he was anymore.
The Composer seemed to think that, as he ghosted music over and into his Producer's wings, until every feather trembled and stretched to the fullest span, extremely funny.
:Fallen or not,: he purred, :you are still mine.: